Missing Hours

After Shane has dragged the exercise bike into the apartment, Ilya gets haunted by flashes of them together — visions of a happiness so radiant it feels like a crime to let it go. The images are utterly random, and Ilya struggles to make sense of them, to explain or impose order. He downloads a diary app and begins to reconstruct his life. He googles himself, rearches his social media, desperately trying to piece it all together.

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A NEW STRAIN ON MATRIMONY: AMID LOCKDOWN, SARAH TALLEY JOINS A RISING NUMBER SEEKING DIVORCE YOUR MARRIAGE IS STRUGGLING. HERE ARE 7 WAYS TO FIX IT, STARTING TONIGHT

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“So,” Shane says, decisively pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. It sounds serious, and Ilya is not ready. No-no-no-no-no — maybe Anya needs another walk? His eyes dart to the empty dog bed, then to the couch. “Ilya, I’m not divorcing you.” Ah. Sveta called him — of course she did. “Okay.” “And I’m really sorry. I haven’t been handling this right. I need to explain. Please… Please, listen. I am sorry.” Honestly, an explanation would be fucking nice, even if Ilya has guessed the broad strokes. He shouldn’t snap — this is an adult conversation, and he is an adult. He can handle this. “Okay,” he repeats, striving for calm. “At the hospital, when I told you… Well, I said something and you reacted really badly. And then I was stupid enough to say more, and you had seizures. It was one of the scariest things in my life. I never want to hurt you like that again. I… I’m so sorry, I’m-” Ah. He should have guessed about the seizures; there were hints, but… Oh, Shane is crying. Well, not quite crying — he’s doing that thing when no teardrop falls, but lakes of them well up, held back by sheer will. Ilya shouldn’t find Shane irresistible when he’s sad, but he’s not a good man, and Shane’s so hot. “I wasn’t aware you were at the hospital with me,” he says, instead of offering to suck his husband’s cock — a monument to adult restraint. Shane’s single step toward him makes him want to forgive absolutely fucking everything. He’s desperate to trade this tension for the raw, bright flashes of a happiness he can only remember in glimpses. He keeps craving. “You didn’t…? Right.” Shane turns his head away for a moment. When finally meets Ilya’s gaze, his cheeks are wet. “They kicked me out after the seizures. Mum stayed.” It explained everything. Every fractured detail snapped into a whole — oh, wait. “You’re the hoodie guy? The one who told me about my dad?” He punched Shane. He punched his husband — even his own father had never lowered himself to do that to his wives. Fuck, he’s worse than his dad. The shame is instant and corrosive: that’s why. Shane wasn’t withholding; he was afraid. “I’m so sorry,” Ilya chokes out. “No excuse. I’m so terribly sorry…” “You’re sorry? I triggered your seizures. You could have died, Ilya. There could have been permanent damage, and I was just-” “I literally punched you in the face, Shane.” “Well, I should’ve kept my damn mouth shut!” “I married you! And then I hit you!” “I play hockey for a living, Ilya. I’ve taken punches before.” “How does that excuse-” “And it doesn’t excuse me ignoring doctor’s orders either.” Shane probably hasn’t noticed it yet, but he’s gently rocking back to forth — he’s as stressed about it all as Ilya. “You were talking to me on the phone when you got hit. I heard you shout, and then the line went dead. It was fucking horrible. And then I came to the hospital and made it worse. I’m so glad you’re alive, but fuck. It was… it was bad.” Oh. “And then your parents caught COVID,” Ilya says, mostly to himself. “Can you believe my Dad was afraid to tell me he got sick? Am I really that bad at handling things? Why am I so bad at this?” “Well, it’s a stressful time,” Ilya offers, the understatement hanging lamely in the air. “No shit! Sorry.” Shane stands up and shakes his arms, as if reading himself for a fistfight. “Well, you probably have questions. I… I really don’t know where to start.” The thing is that Ilya wants the conversation to stop — Shane is vibrating with stress, and Ilya’d rather have a good cuddle session on the couch and let the tension bleed away. But offering comfort feels like pity, and Shane is in no state to read Ilya’s own crumbling composure. So he deflects, “Start with Rose Landry.” It’s the perfect pivot: a topic of genuine interest, strategically far from the hospital. “Can we not?” “What? I want to know. There’s so much gossip online — it’s hard to know what’s true. How long were you two together? Why did you break up? I mean, you clearly have more to say to her than to your own husband who you live with.” Shit. It was a worthy effort to keep it cool, but the bitterness has won. “I’m sorry. And I can’t believe you googled her.” “Can’t you? Really?” “She’s my best friend! When I met her, we just clicked — we could talk for hours. I thought she was the one.” “The one?” Ilya’s laugh is sharp. “Talking for hours — yeah, I’ve noticed.” “We weren’t compatible. There’s nothing between us but friendship.” Compatible. The word is a tripwire in Ilya’s mind. He remembers a club — Shane and Rose on the dance floor, her hands under his boring white T-shirt. Back then they looked pretty compatible, and Ilya has no trouble picturing that compatibility playing out between the sheets. “What, you couldn’t get it up for her? Can’t say I blame you.” “Fuck off. I’m gay, Ilya. Fully. And you don’t get it — you actually like women.” “Not all women — I still have standards.” “What, someone like Svetlana?” Shane snaps. “Who you wanted to marry for fucking citizenship? I know your standards, you asshole.” “You don’t like Sveta?” “I like her, I think she’s great. I don’t like you being a dick to Rose.” “Okay then. I can be not a dick. Tell me why you still talk to Hayden Pike, the guy who outed us. It wasn’t nice. Right? I’m not a dick here.” “For god’s sake…” “You wanted me to ask questions,” Ilya spreads his hands, a mockery of openness. “So I’m asking. I’m sitting here, ready to hear some answers. Start talking.” “It was an accident — he hadn’t noticed us in the video. He apologised.” “So I can just forgive anyone, too, right? Just like that?” Ilya leans forward, his voice dropping to a razor’s edge. “Well, stop fixating on the seizures. They were an accident. I can forgive you, just like you forgave fucking Pike. Right?” “That…” Shane’s voice falters. “That’s not the same.” “Right,” Ilya says, the bitterness sharp. “Because Pike didn’t just out you. He outed me, too. I couldn’t even visit my mother’s grave for the last time.” As the words leave him, he realizes it wasn’t a guess — it was a fact. He had been planning the trip, checking flight tickets… “Oh.” Shane’s voice was soft. “That’s why… You never said.” “That Hayden Pike is an asshole? I refuse to believe you’re surprised.” “I’m sorry. Ilya, I’m so sorry.” Shane is staring at him with his wet eyes, and in any other situation Ilya would be already on him, kissing him, but Ilya’s done with rejection, and, well, he does feel bad about the punch — he doesn’t want to scare Shane. Shane holds his gaze for a long moment, then looks down with a sigh, “I don’t know what else to say other than that I’m really sorry.” Ilya doesn’t know what to say either. Okay. He could just… not be a dick. He is recovering. Relationships need work. He could choose not to be an asshole for once in his life. “So,” he says, forcing a lighter tone. “If Rose Landry and I were drowning…” “Oh, fuck off!” Shane laughs, and Ilya can’t help a cheeky smile in return. Shane is studying him again, then stands up straighter. “Well, if there’s nothing else…” “It’s enough for now.” “Okay.” The silence is excruciating, and Shane awkwardly retreats to his room, only to return moments later with a book — something about hockey, Ilya’s sure. The man settles on the sofa and pulls out a pair of… “You wear glasses?” Ilya is genuinely surprised. Shane looks like a hot little nerd. A seemingly innocent but desperate, slutty bookworm. What the fuck is that? How come Ilya’s never seen him read before? Shane hums in agreement — he’s definitely not looking in the book. “Are you seducing me?” “No,” Shane says hurriedly — oh, but he is. “You are! What’s with the… uh, sexy Literature teacher look?” “The what now?” a gentle smile, so gentle that it pulls Ilya from his chair, drawing him closer. Shane doesn’t look away, his mouth slightly parted. The heated gaze slowly drifts down to Ilya’s crotch. Okay. Ilya palms himself through his sweats, and Shane’s lips part further on a silent breath. That mouth… Ilya could find a use for it. The sweet, red tips of Shane’s ears are a devastating contrast to the sinful frames of his glasses. “I could…” Shane whispers. “What?” “I could help with that.” “Oh, could you? Only if the glasses stay on.” “Okay,” Shane breathes, looking up through his lashes. What an obedient, perfect slut — Ilya isn’t going to last. Shane tugs his sweatpants down, and his hot mouth is on him.

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FIVE WAYS TO IMPROVE YOUR SEX LIFE DURING LOCKDOWN

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“Hi! … It’s really nice to hear from you. … Shane? Ah, he must be busy. … Okay, I’ll try Eeliya, maybe he knows. … Yes, okay! Bye-bye!” David looks at her, eyebrows raised. “That was Rose. She’s been trying to reach Shane all evening, but he hasn’t replied yet.” “That’s odd. He’s usually so quick.” “I know. I’ll call Eeliya. But if he doesn’t pick up…” “We wait,” David interrupts. “We wait at least a couple more hours before we go over there.” “But what if-” “The Cottage Incident.” “Okay. Fine.” Yuna lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “I mean, yeah. I hope it’s the case.”

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Shane’s smile is blissful, and Ilya is sure his own matches it. He drags his prickly chin across Shane’s chest, and the man wriggles deliciously. Ilya’s smile widens. “I missed this,” Shane whispers. “It’s nice you don’t have to go anywhere. That I can just keep fucking you.” “Do you remember? Us, I mean.” It’s a complicated question. “Bits and pieces. I don’t know how to put what I remember in order, or how to make sense of it. But I, uh… I remember you proposed — there were candles. Electric ones.” “You remember.” Shane’s smile is almost drunk, soft — as if he’s on good meds. He reaches out to touch Ilya’s face. “Good.” “I remember visiting you at hospital,” Ilya says. “You were pretty fucked up.” “Ah. Hockey accident.” “Were we together then?” “Kind of? Almost.” “What kind of answer is that?” “Ilya,” Shane interrupts his thoughts, giving him a sweet peck on the lips. “Do you feel better? Do headaches bother you?” “No, I’m fine — I feel okay,” Ilya whispers back. “Let’s go to the cottage.”